Monday, October 20, 2014

rhyming on the inside

Things are always spilling over, meaning bleeding like feelings from the flesh. We scuff and scrape and smudge everything we touch, cryptic sworls the signatures of our busy fingers. Boundaries broken, borders crossed, everything seemingly immune to our habits of specificity, save the ideas we cling to with all the mad fervor of our faiths. All these fears and wishes paint our every brush. There is always more within us than we can contain. We are poor vessels that set forth leaking all about the world, then declare how much of the world is wet.

The feelings will not abate. We are this weave of stone and dream, the resonance of the instrument, the page when graced with ink. We write that it is written, never even slowing for the joke. This world always seething with our senses, the song so familiar because it must be recognized to be sung. The knots in our logic, the loopholes where we bind the spell, these limits we can never see. So close the reasons cling, enfolding what I may know, yet still so sure of my love. You are where all I want and the world intersect.


This is the measure of the magic, the slight shift of tense, the way my breath glistens against your skin. The sudden spill of probability, the ubiquitous aligning of the cosmic such and such. The casual spell of being just in time gathering at every sense. Love so fast and certain it seems sure to be a trick. A sign of the times or a fire in the mind. It is distant until it is upon you, and then it wears you as its skin. This chill calling gooseflesh so swift upon you, it feels as if touched by a ghost you always knew was there. These lips folding words, these fingers holding tight.

Sunday, August 17, 2014

word by word

There is nothing but the body behind this sheen of self. This compound of trillions of seperate trusts,  chemistry and the usual concussed thoughts. The seething of the ancients, marrow mouthing the sounds of all the gods and ghosts, moving my lips as if they had a choice. The ruined country of my own invention, words left lying all over the page. All joy, all sorrow the staved in skull of freedom. Smiling with the teeth of ground gears, weeping with the tears of clockwork I write out my lists and plans. Unproven claims of exception, the sunken stone thrown so close to reason. The soul of poetry just another affliction.

I am the child of indolence and ineptitude. I am the words unfurled from tears. The welcome worn, the miles wandered. The cage of inaction and the course of history. My mind now weak, my body a shambles, and still I cling to this empty name and direction. The sour stomach and the hungry heart. The blessed bitter taste that lingers in every single thing I say. The way the world moves on, however wrecked or broken. The words released, as if they were ever held at all.

It is early here. It is even earlier where I am from. Here the morning sieves through the poplars, not the pines. Here the dreams are run aground before sleep even has the chance to fail me. The words ignore the hiss of my breath and the sputter of my heart, the hum of my blood another symptom of this afflicted legion. The ache and sadness just so much dissention in the ranks. This drooling, seeping, barking meat coddling his last conceit. I wake to find each wound waiting, the price of this subtle magic greater every day. I wake to find the loss I always arrive at watching for the first spilled tear. One word then another, the plaintive tone, the want of grace. It is the disease that documents each last poem as it breaks me word by word.

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

insufficiency

I pace the earth like always, worn-through shoes and worn-out bones. I drag my shadow through the dust. Flies light on my limbs as I still them. The world escapes me when I pause. The loosed arrow, the haunted hall. The weight of the sun burning at my flesh. Aimless, I scuff my soles away on the pavement. A lost child too used to the wild myths spun by the heart. A fool driven by flashing teeth to fall from the edge of creation. Everything flight until it isn't.

The brittle needles and the pine limbs sweep the ground with shadows. The wind leaps and pauses, giving life to dust and smoke. The heart wants to beat and breathe through all this ache. The press of heat, the push of this reckless fusion. The blue of a sky so full of birds, the breeze creased by wings and need. Another brutal summer as gentle as a kiss. Another brutal season, made painful by this broken witness. There are no reasons as the trees sway and bow.

This is the fever as it wakes the fleah. This is sickness as it earns its stripes. Every sup, every morsel turns to ashes in my mouth. Every blessing, every bounty is weighed against the crackling of my poisoned heart. It is a habit of madness. It is a choice made of bolts and blood. I seethe and spit, all the beauty of this wide old world an accumulation of dust. Another waking into this failed flesh. Another dawn coming down the lane, the sun as blameless and bright as any beloved child. The day breaks in waves. 



structure

The wind unwinds, slipping on the skin of the sky. The plane trembles as it ascends, a silver cypher, a spark in scattered clouds. From tarmac to heaven, the rumble of this miracle of bouyant metal, this husk of wait and wonder. The pressure leaves the inner-ear, the lit window burns with the ache of unalloyed light. We climb, rising like the lucid moon. We climb, like the bounty of summer stars. We cling to constellations, skim the skin of this sea of mountainous clouds as we cling to the seams of the world. We rise until we shine.

We are dull and we are ungracious. We sneer and scoff at the miracles we unfurl. We ride the sky, we court the wind. The words come loose in our greedy mouths. Give me more light, give me a longer lever. Our intransigent hearts beating time with their hard heads against the hollows of our ribs. Each repast we judge against our dreams and not our hunger. To always want, ever empty, ever fasting on the glut and ruckus of our insatiable wounds. We are made of holes and wells. We are the howl of the forgotten engine, this suspension of mass before the subtle fold of metal and the wild riot of so much thrust. We are the plan abandoned for the mapped out treasure of our half dreaming desires.

Night falls and we bend the sky above the sphere. Cities stretch and sprawl, the shimmering fire of other lives. I am a song, I am a stone, I am the ghost of a crow that cooled in my hands so many years ago, its precious lifeblood sticky on my open palms. More wreck than right, more loss than art. Here in this contrivence of love and lore I sift through these moments of sharp surprise, my heart heavy rememebering my belly sore with glee. The great clown has passed, his heart stilled, all his days gone to the past and shorn towards never more. We build against the breakage, wings trembling like the touch of a lover, hands pressed wide and firm against the barest intentions of the air. I feel the tears as they well, the way the words take and give all at once. My window open to the world below, my life yet another light passing in someone else's lovely night.



Tuesday, July 15, 2014

all the stars

All the stars have gone away, every wish is lost. The sky sheds its shifting skin, spilling wind and shadow. The whole world turns brittle blue and pavement gray, the dark yard rustles and wakes. Everything is dogs and traffic, hollow words and headlights. The last embers glow as the smoke gutters and all hope dies. Love lingers, a bitter remainder, bright reminder of the once you were.

The room shines low, the songs shuffle and low. So many summers lost to wander vacant lots and jittery streets. So many seasons wasted while the skin slips away. Sunlight still beating inside your reddened flesh, that dance of daylight in deep clear water now pictures in a book behind your eyes. Word after word, and nothing ventured. The blood stipples the page, the ink bruise black on every line.


I would pray if there was the least hint of smolder. I would cry if the tears were worth their salt. Ghosts gather and grumble, every loss arrive at once. Every failing takes wing to come home to roost. I am alone in the darkness of my own invention. I am alone in the hollow light of a single bulb. Nothing sings, nothing stays. I sit still in the ravening night, watching as the shadows swallow me whole.

skin and bones

The day is bright, the light relentless and starved of reflective flesh. So the day rises, so the sun spills, hungry dust and flesh beaded in sweat and heat. The crows vocalize in some other sky, while flies warm themselves on your every limb. The music tumbles beneath the surface, delving into the dark corners and sticky shadows of your restless mind. All the words, all the wings, still nothing is held aloft by this relentless tide. Each way, each wish, arrives already buried, all hope stolen or murdered before your eyes. Like you, the light is there to be lost.

The wings sweep the sky, the shadows stick and swell. The heat sinks into your flesh, and you steam and pool and glisten. Your face a painted mask of dust and sweat. All this effort for the ache in every bone. All this effort for this heart that blurts and sputters. You work at it, this aimless pantomime of sacrifice. You work hard to hold fast to all this empty.


Cry for all your waste and wander. Weep for the tireless pace of all this blood. Stay the night with your prayers and spells of rote convenience. Follow the vein to the troubled source. All these hopes for love and comfort movies playing in an abandoned theater. You jostle the crowds of skin and bones that there might be a path to follow. Your thoughts clotted with shards and rust, you wipe away the maps and prizes. Your mouth full of promises no-one cares if you keep, the day burns down around you.

Thursday, June 12, 2014

ideation

There is the day, there are the words, there are the systems and the senses. The vacant school field dripping with sprinklers, the mocking birds scolding the cat in the grapes. The feel and the phrasing and the world always so much the same, yet the sickness grows. Blue skies and fair weather, yet my mood is in the wind. The old call to violence over these fresh new failings, the urge towards self slaughter forever in the wings. My whole life an inability to reconcile my wants with reality. This dull relentless longing for a bullet to baptize the wall with my brains.

There is dust on my tongue, there are stains upon the smile I seldom find, there is all the sorrow and this rage. The tales I tell all leading nowhere but into the thickness of language, this seeping from all the wounds in the world. I can feel the press and lift of the atmosphere as the air sails and stumbles, I can hear the lilt and the hesitation of limb and leaf. Music plays beneath all this struggle and sway, my campaign the cracked voice and the closed throat. The song in my heart drowning in all this blood, the tears on my face trails in the dirt. My legacy only ache and confusion, my inheritance wreck and ruin.


The day is slow, the clock is plodding. My skin dissolves at the least provocation. I close my eyes and feel the press of steel. I close my eyes and I am in the sealed garage with the engine idling. I crave the abandon of bones cracking beneath this desolate fury, all this hollow prattle another balloon loosed in a room. The terror of this vivid, daily decomposition always a flicker behind my eyes. The sadness of my lack clinging cruelly to my heart. Each day feels like the day I need to end it, the promise I made to still my hand stuck like a splintered bone in my throat. The burden of this broken brain, the tension of this unbidden flesh, the tatters of my every least intention shredded before my eyes. I don't know how much longer I can hold on. My grail beyond my grasp, my life in scraps and shreds. Every day a blessing I want to end.